


It was all yellow

by liionne



Series: A thousand ways to meet [3]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:33:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones owns an art gallery and Jim is a visitor who apparently isn't bothered. Bones doesn't know that, in actual fact, he's blind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It was all yellow

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post (http://deforrestkelley.tumblr.com/post/56477852089) because it was too damn beautiful not to write.

McCoy had found that in order to be an artist, you had to bare all. You couldn't be self conscious if you were to run an art gallery, filled with your own works. Because if you were too shy to put work on the walls then you definitely weren't going to be getting any visitors.

He was about to close the gallery for the day; it was nearly seven, and so he'd close as soon as everyone had left. He wasn't one for kicking potential customers out. Instead, he switched the light off behind the reception desk and took a tour of his own gallery.

He'd only gotten onto the first painting when he found someone wandering. Not looking at any of the paintings in particular, walking slowly along the length of the room. It was all open plan, so it was easy to walk around. Every so often he'd reach out a hand to steady himself, it seemed, fingertips brushing the walls, and then he'd continue on his lazy walk, looking at nothing in particular. It was ticking McCoy off; he'd apparently come into his gallery, and not liked what he saw. Maybe he was just wandering around out of politeness. Frowning a little, McCoy approached him.

"What's the matter?" He asked, arching an eyebrow at the man, the last person in his gallery. "Not like what you see?"

The man laughed, but he didn't look abashed, or drop his gaze like McCoy would have in this situation. "I wish I could form an opinion."

McCoy arched an eyebrow. What the hell did that mean?

After a pause that felt longer than necessary, the guy's smile faded just a little. "I'm blind," He explained. "I come in here cause I like the smell of it. It's... something else."

Internally, McCoy groaned. How did he not notice the way his eyes rarely moved, how they focused on one spot on the horizon and never wavered? Maybe he never realised because his eyes looked so _alive_ \- a ridiculous, electric blue that McCoy knew would haunt his dreams until he painted them. He felt awful. Though the other man couldn't see it, McCoy gave him a sheepishly apologetic look.

"Damn, kid, I'm sorry-" He began, but the guy cut him off.

"It's alright. Easy mistake to make. And seriously, call me Jim." He held a hand out to McCoy, a smile creeping onto his features again.

McCoy shook his hand. "McCoy. Leonard McCoy. Look, seeing as I was such an asshole, why don't I take you on the grand tour of the place?"

"As long as you tell me what the paintings are like." Jim bartered, grinning a little.

"Deal." McCoy nodded. He guided Jim by the elbow, leading him to the first of his paintings. He went through them all, all twenty or so of them that he had on display. It took hours, Jim asking question after question: What did it feel like? What were the colours like? What was the story behind it? When they eventually ran out of paintings to look at, it was ten o'clock, but neither man noticed the time. Too busy wrapped up in one another and the art around them, they collapsed onto a bench in the middle of the room, balancing precariously on it as they lay side by side. Jim explained that he hadn't always been blind, but he'd taken a nasty hit to the back of the head one day and it had taken away his sight. McCoy had explained that he hadn't always been a painter, but when his wife had left him - "leaving me with nothing but my Bones", which Jim had decided was an excellent nickname - he'd taken to it, and now he found it hard to stop. They talked for hours, about everything and anything, right through the night.

"Damn," McCoy murmured, when he could see sunlight bleeding through the windows of the gallery.

"What?" Jim asked, his voice soft.

"It's 6am." He answered, looking to Jim to see his reaction.

McCoy was finding that one of the biggest tradgedies concerning Jim's lack of eyesight was the fact that he couldn't see his own face. Jim winced, and then chuckled, turning his head in the direction of McCoy's voice. "Damn." He echoed.

"We should go for coffee." Bones suggested.

Jim's stomach rumbled, earning a laugh from them both. "And breakfast." Jim added.

Bones sat up, pulling Jim with him. "I know a place a block from here, it's great. Called The Enterprise Cafe," Jim said. "I'll take you there."

"You will?" Bones asked. Jim could hear the incredulous edge to his voice.

"I still know my way around, Bones, eyesight or no eyesight." He grinned.

"Alright," Bones nodded. "Then lead the way."

Jim was right; he knew the route to the cafe as if it were right in front of him, as if he were reading it from a map. Of course, the map was in his head, and that was what Bones was so fascinated by.

"Jim!" Chirped a young, curly haired kid behind the counter when they entered.

Jim grinned, "Hey Pavel."

"The usual?" The kid - Pavel - asked.

"Please," Jim nodded. "What're you having?" His head turned ever so slightly in Bones' direction.

"Just a black coffee, please." He answered.

Both Jim and Pavel nodded.

"Jim!" Another happy cry, and both men looked at - but only one of them saw - the woman in the smart black clothes, appearing from the toilets. "You don't usually come in on Tuesdays, what're you doing here? And at 6am? Is your house on fire? 'Cause I can't imagine anything else getting you out of bed."

"Don't pretend you're not glad I'm here, Nyota." Jim smirked.

Bones felt like an outsider, like a nature documentarist, watching on the edges. Jim was a little social butterfly; he obviously spent a lot of time in the cafe with the way the staff treated him. And Bones decided that that was definitely a good thing; he'd known people with disabilities who never left the house, who cut off from all their friends and their family. To see Jim so social and active and, well, _happy_ made Bones feel a little lighter.

"My usual seat taken?" Jim asked of no one in particular, but everyone turned to look.

"As if I'd let someone take your seat." Nyota smirked.

"Even on days I'm not here?" Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Even on days you're not here." Nyota confirmed.

"She's ruthless." Pavel grinned. "And vicious."

Jim grinned back at him, tugging Bones by the hand to a booth by the window. Jim explained that he might not have been able to see it, but he knew the sidewalk was out there, and he liked hearing the sounds of the street and he liked to be able to sit in the sunlight rather than the artificial light that illuminated the cafe. Who was Bones to argue?

"So who's your friend?" Nyota asked, when she placed their drinks in front of them.

"Nyota, this is Bones." Jim introduced him with a grin.

She arched an eyebrow. "Bones?"

"Leonard." McCoy corrected.

"He's an artist." Jim said, with a tone that Bones just didn't recognise.

Nyota, apparently, did recognise it, as she pressed her lips into a thin smile and gave a nod. "I see." She murmured. "Let me know if you two need anything, alright?"

Just like the night before, they spent hours talking, eventually ordering food because damn were they hungry. Bones was surprise at just how much food Jim could pack away. For someone so lean and musuclar, he ate like a pig. Bones couldn't help noticing the way that, every so often, Pavel and Nyota would look over at them and then huddle together to whisper, before parting ways again, only to repeat the process ten minutes later. He didn't care though; he was more interested in what Jim was saying.

When they finally ran out of things to talk about, Bones decided he would walk Jim home. Jim insisted he'd be fine, but Bones didn't care. "I'm walking you home 'cause I want to, not 'cause I have to." He explained, and that placated Jim enough to let him walk beside him.

"I would say you can come up, but uh, I'm gonna pass out as soon as I step through the door." Jim grinned, when they reached his building.

Bones grinned. "Maybe next time then, huh?"

"Definitely." Jim nodded.

The two of them stood there for a while, in silence; Bones' eyes scanned Jim's face, staring into his eyes for a long time. And then he let out a huff, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and said, "I'll see you soon, then."

"See you soon." Jim replied, and then he grinned at his own little joke.

"That wasn't funny." Bones told him, backing away from the building.

"It was a little funny." Jim raised his eyebrows.

"Nope." Bones shook his head. "Goodbye, Jim!"

~~~~~

They spent every day together for the next three weeks.

They managed to find something new to talk about every single day, and when they exhausted the topic, they would either fall asleep on top of each other, or Bones would go home. Because they always went to Jim's house, or The Enterprise Cafe, and sometimes the art gallery, if Jim asked for it. Bones just thought it easier that way; he didn't want to take Jim somewhere he didn't know. And as much as Jim swore that he was okay, Bones wasn't caving.

So when Bones led Jim up to his studio above the gallery, taking him slowly because the stairs were old and rickety and hard for someone with actual eyesight to navigate, they both knew it was a big deal. As Bones led him up the final stair into the attic studio where he worked, and lived, Jim was hit with the musty smell of paint, the earthy smell of wood, and the rich, slightly sweet smell that he could only ever relate to Bones. A smile crept onto his features. "So this is it?" He asked.

"This is it." Bones nodded.

Jim took a few steps forward, taking in the smell and the dim light, the smile on his face growing with every step he took.

"Careful," Bones warned. "This place is a bomb sight, I should have cleared up, but-"

"I'll be fine, _mom_." Jim turned to grin over his shoulder, stretching a hand out in front of him. His hand collided with a canvas, the paint still wet. He recoiled, grimacing, "Sorry."

Bones came up behind him, wiping the wet paint from his finger tips. "It's alright. I think that might have been the finishing touch."

Jim grinned, running his thumb over his fingers, taking in the dry feel of it. Bones watched him, and then he took his hand, leading him over to a painting that was dry.

"What're we looking at?" Jim asked.

"Your eyes." Bones answered.

Jim made a soft sighing sound, his eyes closing for a moment. Bones took that opportunity to grab his hand, his palm pressing to the back of Jim's hand and leading his fingertips to the canvas. Jim blinked as his fingers brushed the paint, and a small smile turned the corner of his lips up. Bones led his fingers along the sandy line of his eyebrows, down the ridge of his nose, along his eyelid.

Jim was fascinated by the paint, the feel of it, smooth and then rough, thick in places and thin in others, the swirls and swishes he could feel across the canvas, his fingers following Bones' brush strokes. And then there was a weight on his chest that he couldn't ignore, and the smile faded from his face.

"My step-dad hit me over the head with a beer bottle." he murmured. "That's how I went blind."

Bones was silent for a long time. "When my wife left me I became an alcoholic. That's how I started painting."

And now both of them were silent, but it wasn't curhsing, or defeaning. Rather, it was empty, empty of words, of thoughts, only the feeling of the paint beneath their fingertips and their hands pressed together left in existence. Jim was sudden;y aware of just how close Bones was, how he was almost shielding him with his own body, how his arm stretched the length of Jim's.

"It's beautiful." Jim murmured, his fingers trailing along the electric blue of his irises. 

Bones looked at Jim, his expression wistful, his voice soft, as he murmured, "It's a masterpiece."


End file.
